The Queen's Wolf
by HeatHazeAnd
Summary: Kuroha is tired of killing his fragile, little Mary every time. He decides to protect her instead, just see where it leads him. Basic knowledge of KagePro required.
1. Chapter 1

**author's notes~** **summer vacation has finally hit my school and this is my first fanfic here and I feel very hopeful so here's a bit of "nice" Kuroha. While this chapter is just an intro, for the next one, I'm debating on whether to continue the plot (add Seto) or focus more on their lives. Eh. Onwards! :D**

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He was lost, maybe. That's what you would think, seeing him roam the tiny rooms of the cottage. Or maybe a ghost. Pale white skin, shifty black figure, unflinching yellow eyes, at times he even seemed to disappear into the surroundings. His hand traced over paper weights and tea cups, colored books and wooden shelves, knickknacks and papers that meant little to him. Curious objects and desires were foreign to him. Still, though, there was purpose in his search, as among the seeming mess of papers he held up a particular storybook. Brought up to the dim moonlit window, in large, fancy letters, "The Queen's Wolf".

Involuntarily, he gave a thin smile, alone in the dark. He had found himself becoming increasingly sentimental. Recently in these endless summer days, he again entered the cottage, again explored the objects, again read the title of that book at that time, thinking to himself that the book title was fitting. Even after years of meaningless repeats, the book shared his satisfaction.

And then there was the white-haired maiden, asleep in the next room, undisturbed like her little cottage.

Her room was dark, the blinds shut, his figure in the doorway leaving no shadow. Too early for the chirping birds, too early for any noise, she slept in silence. He inched to her side.

"My queen," he whispered.

Her eyes remained closed, her breathing deep and slow. He contemplated again. The number of ways he could displace objects and never have her notice. The number of fingers he could wrench off of her before she faints. The number of birds it would take to paint the room red.

But this was another route.

And as quietly as he came, he left. And as carefully as he walked out, the sun rose, and the birds sang, and the queen woke. First her body stretched out, readying itself for the day, then her eyes opened, adjusting to the dimness of her room, reminding her to open the blinds. So she stood up. With what bit of will she had, she shuffled to the window, opening the blinds. And she looked back and saw again her room the same as it had been the day before, light invading the vault, removing the smudges of darkness from her painted day.

"Good morning," she mumbled, still sleepy, to no one in particular.

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Pathetic.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.

How pathetic he was, watching her patiently from behind, stalking her from the dark recesses, the haunted rooms, dragging his chains but for no one to hear. All of this just for her to die, again and again and again. In the end, if anything, he would be forgotten and ignored, ghost of an abandoned room in an abandoned house in an abandoned town.

But no.

No. No. No.

That is all the more reason she must survive, to let the endless bloody summer days pass, to let there be something new presented to him for his enjoyment—a reward for his restraint. He was not sure whether to smile in excitement of the opportunity or to frown in distaste of the peace, emotions still foreign and volatile to him.

Yet there was something oddly delightful in this situation. The day when finally the queen's wolf comes to protect her and not to bite her head off.


	2. Chapter 2

**author's note~ no no no, this "little boy" is truly just a little boy, not any important protagonist in disguise (or is he!?). You may wonder why this chapter feels so much like a filler. Shhhhh... Just enjoy Kuroha; I'm working on the plot right now xD. Thank you for the support and I'll be back after I find some substance...**

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The little boy found himself at the forest's edge, pushed and prodded by other children to enter. He stood hesitantly before them, daring to disobey the band of other boys chosen to explore the forest. He was unarmed, dressed lightly, and out of place, standing quietly among the loud, noisy children. For a moment, the sunlight dimmed out as a cloud passed; quietly, a single phrase of protest made itself into his mind. And yet, without will, he joined the others wordlessly, marching as a toy soldier, dully wound up, moving forward with an almost manufactured enthusiasm.

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People are resilient and malleable. They make excellent tools. The young black-haired man rested in an alley, sharpening his fangs. Both flesh and mind do not want to resist the mold they are placed in, firm in belief of their surroundings. They are eager, willing even, to be ripped apart. A growl escaped him out of hunger. Being in town always gnawed at his stomach.

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The little boy grew up normally. A normal child with a normal father with a normal mother with a normal sibling with a normal life. He had no particular talents at all and spent his days uneventfully with friends or at home.

There was nothing to be noted of him.

The town he lived in bordered a forest, a wide expanse that shimmered an emerald green during summer, reflecting light like a polished gem. Autumns were cool; winters were cold; springs were surprisingly pleasant. Arbitrarily, inhabitants of the nearby town spread a rumor about the forest. A medusa lived in it. She slumbered at the very heart of it, secluded from society. Every blue moon she would visit town, thirsty from weeks of isolation, scratching at water faucets with her huge claws. At night, children would hear a distinct metallic abrasive screech, over and over, holding their breaths while a long minute passed before silence. "It's the monster! It's the monster!" they would scream, half in fright of the unhuman noise, half in excitement of the moment. The parents would dully silence their children while the policeman made a report: "Disturbed children, metallic screech, a monster…" and etcetera.

Uneventfully, afterwards, the morning would begin as normal. As if to tease, adults held gimmicks: "Be good or the medusa will turn you to stone." So easily, a rumor became myth—a simple idea turned something into fact.

What the little boy took of this, he took to heart, just as the others did, just as complacently and reverently. He had no right to be different and no right to be skeptical.

Of course, then, it was not taken as joke when he was dared to enter the forest, the "home of the medusa." It was not taken as joke when two other joined him, armed with sticks. It was not taken as joke when they were challenged to bring back the medusa's head, fully believing in the existence of the monstrosity, fully believing in the deliverance a bloody, decapitated head.

They were headed off by a band of supporters at the forest's edge. A sheet of bright, blue pressed down on the greenery, the whole weight of the sky compressing the boughs and shrubs to an unnatural, blotched darkness. Impatiently, the leader of the party of three shone a light out to a delicate path. They muttered and stepped in. Darkness intertwined with deep undergrowth, hiding what clues past humans left from walking the same way. The little boy turned back towards the forest entrance. It might have seemed as if the sight would impact him, fill him with longing to return back to safety. But the other boys called for him. He turned back and continued.

* * *

A medusa lived in the forest. She slumbered at the very heart of it, secluded from society.

That was how the old myth went, how the forest remained pristine and silent for years. The young black-haired man allowed himself to reminisce for a moment. It was difficult to remember time or place in the forest. Its thin darkness, hung up by the large boughs and dense foliage, wrapped itself around people, muffling sounds and thoughts. At some point, it was useless to keep track of anything at all when he trailed in the forest, just a stray figure that appeared and disappeared between the trees. The feeling a man has when he has lost his shadow—to have become a shadow himself—perhaps it came with a sense of confidence, a sense of boundless freedom from a loss of self.

And then the time came. He tuned his ears: footsteps.

He was leaning by a tree, blended into one of the many tall, black bars of the background. But tirelessly he rose. There were the trespassers in his territory, coming politely at the appointed time. With that, his figure disappeared again between the black bars.

The little boy and the two others were still following the barely visible trail when they heard the loud thump. A dull, quick thump somewhere off into the trees. The leader shone the flashlight towards the noise. Silence. The three stayed glued to the ground.

Somewhere around them it was there. A silent conviction between the three held that whatever had made the noise was the medusa, the disgusting horror that plagued their dreams. Off in the distances, some breaks in the foliaged ceiling filtered in patches of light but aside from them, nothing, a great void of nothing stared back at them, a static black mass of darkness.

The feeling was not foreign to them: it was fear.

"Be good or the medusa will turn you to stone," the little boy found himself whispering.

The other two turned to glare at him, focusing their light on him. The little boy trembled. A thousand thoughts popped up and turned over at once. He could only imagine where the monster was, what it was going to do. Cold, dry air slowly crawled onto his shoulder. He tried to breathe slowly. One. Two. Three.

A loud thump came off to the right. The leader turned again but saw nothing. They cursed, starting to go frantic. The little boy felt the cold darkness press at his neck. The implication that there was a knife being held to his neck didn't cross his mind. He had never felt cold metal pushed against him before.

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The curious thing about corpses is that they were once people. Just because their clothes have been dyed an indistinguishable blood red, or that their limbs have been chopped off and buried far away, or that their faces have been torn clean of their skulls—just because all traces of their once human role are gone—doesn't mean they weren't people. And even though no one would notice a missing monster, having one dead body is unacceptable, a crime against humanity. Crushing a soul creates a vacuum, a vacuum that none can fill and where bystanders can only stand by, pointing fingers. It was thus inexcusable to kill, to draw attention to the wolf.

To rupture skin with fang meant to carve out the soul, to create an insatiable void.

Words, though, meant nothing.

When the three boys returned back to town, having run a whole mile without rest, there was commotion, yes. But nothing was done. When the little boy felt the cold darkness release him, his life so close to death, when they heard the darkened figure's dull thumps by their heads, its raspy whispering in their ears, when they finally processed fear to the signal to flee, there was another silent conviction made between the three: that never again would they enter the forest.

To break mind with fear meant to carve out the ego, to create a controlled subject.

He went to town again, the sun having already set and the sky painted a dark blue. Again, he sharpened his knife on the water faucet and sat in the breathless silence that he had caused. It had happened too many times. It no longer amused him. Fangs sharpened, he left, the high-pitched whining of children calling for an encore.

My queen, he thought, look at me, look at my suffering. He had been so good, not drawing blood. He had been so good, not killing the little boy. He had been so good, making sure no animals preyed on her. He had been so good, for so long, that he would barely be able to contain himself when a certain red-eyed boy would whisk her away, whisk her away to that new route.

He had been so good that he deserves more.


	3. Chapter 3

**author's note~ this chapter feels more erratic. Perhaps it should sorta serve to mirror Kuroha's unorganized sense of time and events. I introduce Ayano and Ayaka (her mother) and for now, I wouldn't consider them important characters - maybe symbols at best - but more as tools for Kuroha to "bring the family together". I will leave that phrase to interpretation ^^**

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Accidents happen. Droplets cling to paper, adhesive forces yearning for their meeting. The magic touch needed to break the surface, to smear the paper, comes from the hand of the unremarkable artist. The canvas gives the illusion that the painting is purposeful, to have been brushed gently by a deft hand. But red paint feels disturbingly similar to freshly oozed blood, there being no line to tell the two apart.

It took a long while, a long string of accidents, to have them together. The boy who heard thoughts, the girl who turned invisible, the boy who told lies: tidy and whole, the family was together. Except for one.

"My queen, you always wanted to have kids."

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"What have I done?" he muttered to himself. He was soaked waist-down and held a still-limp hand. He inspected it for a moment, questioning why he chose to pick it up from the tangled mess at his feet.

The sun balanced uncertainly at the horizon: eight thirty PM. Dark wisps of clouds gathered above. The alleyway had not been lightened up by a lamp. Instead, the space between the two buildings was stuffed with darkness, blending into the evening street view. Dimly reflected from the dark, a pair of yellow eyes lingered.

A groan rose from the mess at his feet. His eyes flicked down. It took a second to register. He hesitated. He thought he smiled. Quickly, he returned to a frown.

"What have I done, indeed."

Rain poured, washing away the decorated scarlet lines, the blunted fingernails, even the dull ache in his stomach.

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The white-haired maiden painted by the large windowsill on cool days, mornings after a nighttime rain left the trees glistening and clean. She happily retrieved paints from the closet, a remnant hobby from her mother. Her steps were light, her spirits high, a silly grin decorating her face. She held the brushes like sticks with tips bluntly frayed and clumsily mixed different colors which should not have been, but still she continued, delighted by the patches and streaks of greens and blues. It was a forest.

He waited until she retreated further back into the cottage, escaping the high noon sun. After her lunch of a fruit salad, after her cup of chamomile, she settled into an afternoon nap while he entered from the dark, unoccupied crevices.

He emerged from darkness, clad in black.

Ignoring her body, strewn lazily on the couch, he stepped over the lines of long, white hair on the floor. Traces of her—her hair, her smell, her touch—draped her cottage, the tea still wafting, the air still unsettled. Her half-finished painting dried by the window, paints lying carelessly on the bookshelf and floor.

He resisted approaching the painting from the sunlight. The bright light scalded him, his eyes never able to fully adjust. Still, painfully, he stooped down and picked up the tube of red paint off the lit floor. A necessary action. Later, she would wake up to find her cottage empty again, stepping out to view her painting, only to slip on the tube, fall onto her easel, and lose an eye, her loud screams silencing the forest as slowly she bled to death. Around him he could see the blood pooling on the floor.

Such a clumsy girl, he thought, should have died. But still, what should have happened was irrelevant. What was an accident and what wasn't was irrelevant. Unaffected, he dutifully moved the paint. She would not die. She would not even injure herself. She was his only.

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"How do you want it? The coffee?"

"Black."

"Mmmhm. Yeah, you really look the type." The man across the counter smiled. The man handed him the coffee.

He looked in the cup. Red.

"I used to have a lady pass by every day. She drank it black and for some reason she always spilled it on her nice, white lab coat. Clumsy. Said she needed the caffeine, she was something like an archeologist." The man vacantly smiled.

"Used to…" he said, looking back up at the man.

The man's smile faded, melancholy, as a moment passed.

"There was a bit of a landslide where she worked. She –"

"She's dead."

The man looked at him funny. The man's mouth formed a word. He looked again at the man. Then the cafe was empty. A droning sound came to his ears. He looked again; he was in the alleyway. A car passed by on the main street. A ball of light hung endlessly at the edge of the skyline: eight thirty PM. He looked down. A young woman lied mangled at his feet. He felt something wet hit his head. He looked up. The rain droned on.

No, no, no.

His fantasy. His memory. It meshed—no, it stopped. And started. There was no such man. There was no such coffee. There was no such ...

"Can you tell me why you didn't adopt those children in time?" he asked.

She shook her head. He backed her up into the alleyway against the wall. She opened her mouth to call for help; he shut it with his hand.

Several seconds passed.

"Why does it seem you always have to die?"

The woman gurgled an inaudible scream through his fingers. He shoved her head further into the concrete wall. Her lab coat fell down to the ground.

"Why can you not be like her?"

The woman struggled, legs pounding him and the ground, arms braced by his free hand. Her eyes widened, pleading. Beads of blood gently dripped down onto the coat.

A few seconds later, it gushed.

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Reset. Reset. Reset.

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It always took an extra step to get to her.

"Do you want siblings?"

The girl nodded her head.

"Tell your mother about adoption. Point to them that building."

The girl nodded again and scampered away. She seemed satisfied.

He shook his head. It was that simple.

In a week, everyone would be together.

Still standing there, it occurred to him that because of this, the girl would kill herself. That, for all of them to be together, she must die. Still, he held no sympathy. She was still just a normal child. Her figure skipped across in the distance, a red hairclip her only adornment. Like mother like daughter.

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There came a world where happiness ended. He was not there when it happened. The white-haired maiden sat by the window. She had continued painting the forest. Her hand weaved up and down. He sat behind her, watching.

He wanted to confess. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to wring her neck. He wanted to listen to her screams. He wanted to have her in his palm. He wanted to be satisfied with her the way it was.

He could not. A moment passed before he decided what to say. There was something beautiful in how simply she held the brush, how fragile and breakable she was. There was nothing for him in the outside world, its people filthy and dependent. Yet here he was, touching and interacting with them, lowering himself to their level. It was unfaithful, even. The idea rolled carefully around in his head—an apology.

"I'm sorry."

She turned, having heard something. Faintly, a breeze passed through the cottage.


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